


Treading the Tides

by BootsnBlossoms



Series: Walking the Wall [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!Molly Hooper, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Irish Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Magical!Q, Magical!Sally Donovan, Sentient London, Urban Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-02-28 21:19:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2747456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the seedy underbellies of every major city on Earth to the cruel elite of its rulers, Bond had thought he'd seen it all. His very job was uncovering the secret worlds powerful people wished to keep hidden, and he was so good at his job - and had been at it long enough - that he'd thought he'd pulled back the veil on the last of them.</p><p>But now, under the sharp gaze of a man whose eyes sparked with lightning and whose fingers seemed to stir the sea, Bond was learning that something else lurked under London's sidewalks and pulsed in her heart. The magic that was London's lifeblood was in danger, and only accepting the impossible could help him save her one last time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whew! Welcome to our project for the 00Q Reversebang! Because Boots is a procrastinator of the worst sort (and often completely overwhelmed by life in general), this is going to be posted in four parts over the rest of the week. We hope you enjoy it :)
> 
>  **Notes from[Alby](http://albymangroves.tumblr.com/)** (The Artist): Big thank you to Mizufae for the outstanding art beta and to Magnolia822 and Fardareismai for their awesome cheering. Thanks also to destina, adsullata and giselleslash for brainstorming with me! Art can be found on tumblr at [artgroves.tumblr.com](http://artgroves.tumblr.com).
> 
>  **Notes from[Boots](http://bootsnblossoms.tumblr.com)** (The Author): Massive snuggles and tears of gratitude to the amazing [Flame](http://kissofflame.tumblr.com) and [Dragon](http://fightyourdragon.tumblr.com) for being my cheerleaders and for being women of pure awesomeness. Blanketforts and hot cocoa (spiked, of course) to my Root Cellar pals for being there every step of the way. Anne, Reh, FDG, Ara, Gala, Aya, Diz, Fragile, Mara, Lady, Hedwig, Monster, Rose... you guys ROCK. I love you.
> 
> This takes place in the [Walking the Wall](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1548959) 'verse. You don't have to read it to read this, but if you're a Greg Lestrade/Molly Hooper fan, you might want to:)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Enjoy!

“I don’t like this,” Bond said under his breath, low enough for just his companion’s ears. “I think we should leave.”

“Don’t be such a nervous Nelly,” Lance said, waving a dismissive hand as he led Bond deeper into the bar.

Bond shot him an incredulous look — not that Lance looked over, the bastard — but kept walking. “There is a difference between nervousness and having a sense of self-preservation. Not that I’ve often been accused of having either.”

Lance made it to the back corner of the bar and pulled out the stool closest to the wall. Bond caught him by the collar just as he was sitting and yanked him back up to drop him one seat over — the one facing away from the door. There was no way in hell Bond was sitting down here without the wall at his back.

With a grunt of disapproval and a quick tug of his shabby denim jacket, Lance settled into his seat.

“Relax,” Lance admonished, giving an exaggerated shake of his head that set Bond’s teeth on edge. “Sure, the tiny little hairs on the back of your neck are standing at attention, but it’s just because you’re not used to dealing with these kind of people. Leave it to me. You’ll be fine.”

Bond didn’t bother to respond; he was even proud of the way he kept his fingers from twitching with a sudden, intense desire to snap Lance’s neck. As much as Bond had traveled, as many segments of society as he had dealt with, there weren’t many that he couldn’t judge quickly enough to handle with ease. But here?

Here, all eyes had turned to them the moment they walked in. No, not them. _Bond_. Just Bond. They tracked him with expressions of annoyed curiosity, and it set him on edge. And when they quit watching him? When they turned back to their brews or their companions or their shitty pub fare? Their movements were stilted, uncomfortable, restrained in a way that set off tiny alarms in Bond’s head.

A waitress approached them — a tiny wisp of a thing with shock-white hair against her dark brown skin — and Bond found himself doing something he almost _never_ did: a doubletake.

“What?” the waitress asked, amusement clear in the crinkle of her bright eyes. Her bright _orange_ eyes.

“You have lovely eyes,” Bond said, smirking to disguise the observation as a compliment. “I don’t suppose you have Suntory here?”

The waitress snorted and brushed a teasing finger along the seam of Bond’s cuff, and Bond only just managed to keep from jerking away from the unwelcome, somehow threatening touch.

“How about some Jack, hot stuff?”

“A drink to match the decor?” Bond asked. He nodded at the deer skull mounted behind the bar and raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, aren’t you sweet,” the waitress chuckled. The pseudo-fond look she gave Bond immediately evaporated when she glanced back at Lance, and her eyebrows drew into a line Bond could only begin to interpret. “What do you want?”

“Well, Gemma, how about a bit of rowan from the temple and a snag of thread from a druid’s working cloak,” Lance smirked. This time Bond wasn’t able to hide the sound of cracking knuckles as he shifted in his seat. Not just an asshole, but a crazy asshole? Jesus fuck, he didn’t have time for this.

Eyes narrowed, the waitress — Gemma, apparently — nodded and walked behind the bar. She started pulling bottles out from under the counter, and Bond used the distraction to get a better handle on his surroundings.

The bar was small, maybe fifty square meters at best, with a shockingly open atmosphere despite being subterranean, dark, and dirty — the sort of place Bond typically would assume was for shady deals and shadier local folk. There weren’t any booths in the place at all, just a couple dozen mismatched, creaky chairs ringing half as many rickety tables. The walls were brick but almost entirely covered with shelves crowded with books, jars full of various dried flora (spices? tea? something else?), and little statues of gods, goddesses, animals, and symbols, only some of which Bond recognized. None of the patrons were reading, and Bond wondered if it were even possible in the dim bar. The only lights were haphazardly placed glass lamps hanging from the ceiling and the little tealights in green bottle glass holders on every table. The only exits were the beaded curtain to the back room and the front one they’d come in through, and the itch under Bond’s skin grew more insistent the longer they waited.

“Here you go,” Gemma said sliding a tumblr of Jack to Bond and a wine glass of something pink colored and bubbly to Lance. She spared Bond a small smile, then turned to frown at Lance. “It’s one the house if you finish and leave quickly and quietly.”

“Not a chance. My friend here wants to talk to Bethany.”

Bond didn’t look up, recording the name in the mental file of information he’d been collecting on this case. It was ridiculous how little he’d manage to gather so far, which, of course, is why he’d let himself be led here on the word of a fidgety little bastard he didn’t trust as far as he could throw.

“Shut your mouth, Lance,” Gemma snapped. Then she sighed and looked at Bond. “Whatever this jackass has promised you, you’re not gonna get. Bethany hates him and won’t talk to you even if you have a worthy cause.”

“I don’t blame her,” Bond replied with a careless shrug, giving her his best flirtatious smile. “I don’t care much for Lance, either. In fact, I’m perfectly willing to tie him to a rock and sink him in the river if it means it will get me a quick audience with Bethany.”

Gemma smiled and leaned forward, hands braced against bartop. Bond thought it was meant to be sexy, but Gemma was too short to really pull it off, her body mostly hidden by the bar and her smirk far too puckish to be seductive. The sense of menace that ran like an undercurrent through her body didn’t help, either. “Oh really?” she purred, watching Bond.

He took the opportunity to sip his drink, then lick his lips. Attraction had nothing to do with seduction. Lance was making displeased stuttering noises somewhere beside him, but Bond couldn’t be bothered to look. He leaned forward, smirking as he took another drink of his whisky. “Of course, I’m open to other avenues of persuasion, should you have any in mind.”

“Don’t you mean, if _Bethany_ has any in mind?” Gemma asked, eyebrows raised.

What came next happened too fast even for Bond to properly catalog. One moment Bond was flirting, laughing, trying to pin down the best approach to getting an introduction to his mark, and the next the bar was in chaos, furniture was being smashed, glass was shattering around him, and he was flying through the air until his back hit the wall behind him. He was held there, pinned by some invisible force, too stunned even to shout.

“Knock it off, Jag!” Gemma screamed somewhere to Bond’s right, but he didn’t spare her a glance. “You’re smashing up my bar!”

“Strangers, outsiders,” a voice rasped in front of Bond, who grunted as claws ripped through his suit and shirt, rending everything in their path. Bond kicked and punched and tried some clawing of his own, but there was _nothing there_. There was no visible enemy to retaliate against, no hard body to catch in all the right weak spots. Just a vice around his throat and a set of three razor-tipped _somethings_ tearing their way through his chest.

Then Gemma was there, orange eyes glowing and expression twisted in outrage. Bond didn’t think he was in shock yet — the claws hadn’t sunk deep enough to cause extensive damage — but the way Gemma’s body seemed to burn with a radiant heat he could feel even from a meter away made him reconsider his assessment. He added possible head-trauma induced hallucinations to the list when Gemma reached out to pry his invisible attacker off him and her hands appeared to wreathed in flame.

What the _hell_ was going on?

 

~~~

 

“You can’t possibly be serious.”

“Why not?”

“Because! Look at him! A pathetic excuse for humanity. All expensive disguises and armour and cheap toys. There’s nothing underneath.”

“Oh? And since when did you become such an expert on decoding humanity? You rather despised them, last I knew. Too disgusted with humans in general to bother understanding their finer nuances, in fact.”

“Please, brother. As if they require significant insight or interest in order to be decoded.”

“You would be surprised, I think.”

“I’d rather not.”

Training be damned, Bond shifted as he slowly drifted back to consciousness. He hurt _everywhere_ , and he needed to know just how extensive the damage was before he attempted to run. He tried to keep his movements small enough to be unnoticeable, but the voices (only two, if his hearing wasn’t damaged) stopped talking anyway. Bond knew he was caught, so he sucked in the deepest, shuddering breath his body would allow (his ribs weren’t punctured; small favours) and sat up.

“It lives,” one of them remarked coolly. “How impressive. Tougher than it looks.”

“Not that I don’t mind some objectification now and again,” Bond started, swinging his legs around to sit upright, “and who doesn’t, really, but —”

“He isn’t objectifying you,” the older one replied with a roll of it’s eyes. “It’s a simple lack of interest in observing the details.”

“Right.” Bond winced and stretched from the polyester-covered, low-sitting couch he’d been lying on, pleased to find his range of motion wasn’t limited enough to prevent him from fighting his way out if he needed to. Not that there seemed to be any easy exits available to him. They appeared to be in the cabin of a small boat, maybe two and half meters wide by three and a half meters deep. The walls and floor were a cherry-stained wood, and the galley and seat covers were all a white that almost hurt to look at. It look bare, empty, but old, perfectly preserved in its disuse. Bond could feel the gentle rocking of the ocean under him, so he knew he wasn’t on a dry-docked ship, but there was no sense that anyone actually lived here, worked here.

It made him uneasy.

The only way out, however, was up the narrow staircase currently blocked by his commentators. Who, after Bond blinked the fog from his eyes, didn’t appear to be any sort of threat whatsoever. They were both tall, lanky, and pale, and though the way they moved and held themselves spoke to some training and muscle tone, Bond knew they weren’t a real physical match for him. But he also wasn’t restrained, hurt, or presently being threatened, so he decided to wait them out for a chance at some insight.

“Mycroft Holmes,” the taller, better dressed of the two said, stepping forward to hold out his hand. Bond frowned as he shook, trying to place the name. The expensive pinstripe suit, the bodyshape that spoke of long hours sitting, and the sharp focus of Holmes’ acutely observant gaze soon triggered the memory, and Bond stood after the quick handshake.

“Sir,” he replied, bowing his head slightly in the only gesture of respect that came easily to him. Mycroft Holmes was with the Home Office, and responsible for more of Bond’s mission than Bond was probably supposed to be aware of. He was the mastermind behind modern Britain’s biggest victories, and had more blood under his hands than Bond ever would.

The other one leaned carelessly against the doorframe and snorted. “Perfect.”

Bond raised an eyebrow and narrowed his eyes. Holmes’ companion was much younger — by at least fifteen years — and either ignorant or fearless. He was dressed in simple, cheap clothing that contrasted sharply against Holmes’ high quality suit, the bright blue of his fleece and the saltwater-stained black of his trousers clashing violently against Holmes’ subtle pinstripe. His boots were broken in and heavy, the soles worn enough that Bond knew he must be in constant motion. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, but Bond suspected that were they to shake hands, he’d find nothing but wiry muscle and calluses. His gaze wasn’t one of a tired fisherman, though; it was sharp, attentive, and dark in a way that Bond knew all too well. Whether or not Holmes was the one with political power, his companion was at least as dangerous.

The man’s casual irreverence of Holmes didn’t seem to grate on him, however. Holmes merely sighed and poked his rude companion in the side with the umbrella he’d been leaning on. “Play nice, Q.”

“I don’t intend to play at all,” Q shrugged.

“Nonsense, brother,” Holmes dismissed. “You know what’s going on, and what you need to do to protect your precious darlings. I thought you’d be delighted with my choice of a human partner in crime.”

“Please,” Q snorted. “As if I need _help_ in doing anything. Even if I did, do you think I’d be able to use _that_ ” — he waved a hand at Bond, who was wincing as he stood — “to make an impact?”

“Why must you insist on feigning disinterest? I know better,” shrugged Holmes.

“An impact on what?” Bond asked, twisting and rotating to test his injuries. He felt sore all over, but nowhere near as bad as he should be feeling. He frowned pressed his fingers to where the claws had torn through fabric and skin, only to find a dull ache rather than the sharp pain of rent flesh.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Q sighed, running his long fingers through is dark hair.

“You’re teetering on the edge of something very serious here,” Holmes argued sharply. “Something even you can’t handle.”

“Don’t confuse can’t with _won’t_ ,” Q snapped.

“Don’t think for one moment that I believe you’re going to stay out of it,” Holmes snapped back.

Bond ignored them in favor of lifting his shirt to find nothing but smooth, if sore, skin underneath. Adrenaline raced through his body as he tried to make sense of it. The fight at the bar. His invisible attacker. Ending up here, with the most powerful man in Britain, and no wounds to show for it.

Maybe someone slipped something _really_ fucking powerful into his drink and this was all a hallucination.

“I don’t really care what you think, brother, but I simply do not appreciate being manipulated like this —”

“Hah!” Holmes crowed, smacking the tip of his umbrella on the floor victoriously. “So you admit it!”

“Admit what?” Q challenged.

“That the tool of my machinations was well-chosen, and you are not as immune to humanity as you wish to project.”

“Now _you_ admit it!” Q fired back, stepping forward to poke Holmes in the chest with his finger. “Machinations, indeed.”

“Excuse me,” Bond tried to interrupt. His hope that if he just listened long enough he’d learn something seemed to be fruitless, and the bickering did nothing but make his head pound.

“Roth is —” Holmes started, but Q lifted his chin, narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips, and straightened his shoulders. Bond had thought he was deadly before, but now, with Holmes’ words hanging heavy in the air between them, Q was actively menacing.

“Don’t.”

Holmes seem to deflate a little, tipping his head forward a little as he leaned more weight on his umbrella. “I’m sorry, brother. I know you find it distasteful. And worse. But this has to be dealt with.”

“Distasteful isn’t exactly the word I’d use.”

“ _Excuse me_ ,” Bond tried again, this time pitching his voice loud and deep enough to echo unpleasantly in the small cabin. As the two men’s heads swiveled towards him, twin looks of annoyance now directed Bond’s way, he could see how they might actually be brothers.

“You’re here because my dear friend M threw you into a case you weren’t adequately prepared to handle,” Holmes said, eyes drawn to where Bond was still probing at the spot where he could have sworn he’d been injured. “In his defense, I don’t think he knew just how deeply you’d be dragged into…”

“Into what?” Bond asked, annoyed at Holmes’ hesitation.

“How much is explained doesn’t depend on me, I’m afraid,” Holmes shrugged before looking pointedly at Q.

The silence weighed heavily in the air as Bond struggled not to lose his temper. His job was nothing _but_ ferreting out secrets, and whether Mycroft Holmes wanted to divulge or not, Bond would learn if it meant accomplishing his task. Not that he wanted to fight the strategist — Holmes was probably one of the few people on Earth who could execute Bond so quickly and easily that even he wouldn’t see it coming — but bloody fucking hell. This is what they hired him for.

“Myc…” Q started, shaking his head, but Bond knew that look. Q was waivering.

“Let Bond handle the human politics and violence you despise so much,” Holmes suggested. “You deal with Roth.”

Q sighed and looked at Bond, slumping even further against the doorframe. Bond wasn’t fooled by the display of apathy and submission, however; Q’s eyes were as sharp and calculating as ever, and Bond felt like a dragonfly pinned under glass as Q evaluated him.

“Fine.”


	2. Chapter 2

Q could feel Bond’s subtle attention on him as he led the them out of the boat and up onto the docks. The darkness was a surprise, but Q had long ago stopped being able to keep the passage of time. He could feel it in the way the moon shifted, in the way ocean tides pulled at his blood, in the way that entropy moved around him while he stood still and watched the decay helplessly. But it was a vast and unabating sensation — sometimes painful, sometimes a mere shadow of a feeling — and as such it never ceased to be more than an easily ignored background hum.

“Are you tired? Do you wish to postpone this until tomorrow?” he asked Bond, turning to spare him a glance. Bond still moved as if he were in pain, subtly favoring his non-injured side. The healing job had been quick and dirty because Q didn’t want to risk Bond waking up with Q’s hands on him, so though the superficial wounds had been healed, the nerves hadn’t quite had the chance to repair themselves. Q wished he could reach out, slip his fingers under Bond’s torn shirt, and finish the job, but he had enough self-preservation to know better.

“I’m not tired,” Bond snapped. “I’m desperately curious as to what the _hell_ is going on.”

“I don’t blame you,” Q shrugged. “But I’m not in an enlightening mood at the moment.”

“Oh?” Bond retorted, shooting Q a glare. “Then how, exactly, am I supposed to help you against Roth?”

Anger bubbled up in Q, hot and sharp and painful, as the name slipped so easily from Bond’s tongue. “Don’t,” he hissed, stopping his long strides to turn and glare at his unwanted companion. “You have no idea who he is, what he’s done, so just… don’t.”

Something flickered in Bond’s eyes, and Q watched with fascination as Bond drew his strength around him. Though Q couldn’t detect any intentional magic coming from Bond, wisp-thin black lines of energy began flowing from the objects around him and into his body. Q knew that the transaction was completely invisible to normals - Bond himself obviously wasn't aware of what he was doing - but he glanced around anyway to see if any magical folk were in the vicinity to see this blatant display of power-gathering.

Q frowned when he realized that Bond was preparing himself for a fight. “I’m not your enemy.”

“And yet you want to protect my enemy?” Bond asked. His mouth twisted and his eyebrows drew together as he watched Q, but Q was too busy watching the magic fade to care about Bond’s disbelief.

“This is so much more complicated than you know,” Q muttered. He stuffed his hands deep in the comforting wool of his jacket and strode away.

“It always is,” Bond said as he jogged to catch up. “But shades of grey don’t make my _job_ less complicated. So how about you help point me in the Roth’s direction — who, I assume, is the one sinking so many of the ships departing from Felixstowe, London, or South Hampton.”

Q rolled his shoulders but didn’t stop. The sooner they made it to the _Alope_ , the better. Spelled within an inch of ridiculousness, it was the only place in the world Q felt safe to speak freely. Not that Mycroft’s boat, where they’d hidden Bond while he healed, wasn’t well-protected. But Mycroft didn’t have much of a heart — what few emotions he did have seem to be reserved for their brother, Sherlock, who was the least capable of the three of them — and it showed in his spellcraft. Mycroft’s boat was safe, but it was cold and oppressive enough to make Q itch with the desire to escape.

The docks were still teeming with life and energy despite the time of day, and Q let the feeling of productive satisfaction wash over him as the crew and captains of local operations finished up the day’s work. Most of them recognized Q. Some narrowed their eyes at him and held tight to their kids/cats/catches. Others straightened and aimed a wink or a salute his way. Yet others hurried to offer him something, reaching out cautiously to give him fish, apples, cigarettes, or whatever else they had on them that they knew Q would appreciate. Q didn’t have a basket or a bag on him, however, and gave a small shake of his head to decline the offerings. He kept their faces and names in his head though, updating his list of the protected.

“Local celebrity?” Bond asked.

Q shrugged.

“I’m not a particularly patient man, Q. And I’ve had a rather long day. So why don’t we cut the silent treatment and get on with this.”

Surprised, Q looked over at Bond, whose forehead was shiny with sweat, his shoulders pulled taut, his hands pressed so hard to his phantom wound that his knuckles were white. “Sorry.”

“Uh huh.” Bond dismissed.

“We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?”

“A place where I can finish fixing your wound.”

Bond stopped to stare at Q, pain layered with disbelief layered with something that Q couldn’t quite identify. “Excuse me?”

“The creature that attacked you — a boggart named Jag, in case you were wondering — left you damaged to the point of near irreparability.”

“Boggart?” Bond repeated. “As in…”

“If you say ‘Harry Potter’ —”

“Actually, I was going to say the ‘Chronicles of Narnia’,” Bond interrupted, and Q snorted in amusement.

“Boggarts are malevolent, typically invisible creatures found all over the world who love nothing more than to cause damage. Their territory has been gradually diminished as nations have shifted from rural to urban, and many have found purpose in the employ of magical folk. The one who attacked you was under the thumb of a nasty little wizard who sees herself as an enforcer of sorts. She saw a non-magical person — one with a great deal of death and blood and darkness in his aura — hanging around that bastard Lance and took it upon herself to deal with it.”

Bond made a noise, and Q glanced over at him. He knew he wasn’t being fair, plunging a normal into the world of magic like this, without preamble or even a glass of spirits to soothe the shock, but Q couldn’t think of a better way to test Bond’s readiness to actually deal with the situation he’d been thrust into. Most people like Bond, who worked both in the seedy underbellies of the world and the secret elite alike, had run into magic folk at some point in their careers; it was inevitable, really, when power was being traded like cheap metal. But they’d also learned to brush it aside, to ignore it, to only catch it in the corner of their eyes and move on without having to process.

If Bond was going to help Q take down Roth, he was going to be smacked in the face (probably literally) with creatures and actions that defied physics and reality as he knew it … _without_ the benefit of time to process. Q needed to know if Bond could handle it, if he could deal with the situation in front of him and hold off any inevitable panic until there was time and space for it. Q was hopeful: Bond was a spy and compartmentalization was part of his job description.

“So,” Bond started, voice thick but steady. “I get slashed by a mythical creature I couldn’t even see, and all I have to show for it is a shoddy, superficial healing job?”

Q stuttered to a halt and stared incredulously, mouth open and eyes wide, at Bond. Then he broke into a fit of laughter that surprised the gulls and terns into clumsy, startled takeoffs. Many of the locals lifted their heads in shock, and Q ignored them even as couldn’t blame them. He hadn’t laughed in ages; sometimes, he’d thought he’d forgotten how.

“That’s about the size of it,” he admitted, nodding and ignoring the quirk of Bond’s smile at the tired corner of his mouth.

The rest of the walk was quiet, Q monitoring Bond’s reactions as best he could while trying to make a show of studiously ignoring him. Bond’s heart beat a steady thrum of quiet contemplation, only occasionally speeding up in a way that gave away what was really going on in his head. Q knew from experience that he was probably making a long list of the things he’d seen over the years that he couldn’t explain, things that might make more sense now. Q was pleased with the reaction; he preferred people who took time and care with their words.

“This is her,” Q said once they’d reached his finger pier. Bond stayed on the main dock, and when Q looked back to see what the holdup was, he found Bond standing in a loose stance, feet spread shoulder width apart, hands hanging at his sides. Q bit back a smile. It was a fighting stance, and Q appreciated his readiness. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” Bond repeated dryly. “You?”

Q shrugged, biting back a smirk. “Then what are you waiting for?”

“Your boat looks barely fit enough to hold your skinny arse, let alone mine.”

Now Q really _was_ insulted. The _Alope_ was old at her core, certainly, and sure, she needed a little bit of magic to keep her fast and nimble enough to stay competitive among the modern bully ships, but she was a good sloop and exceptionally well-maintained. Q ran a reverent hand along her side, feeling the spark of connection between them like a fire that raced through her hull and into Q’s blood.

“Her name is _Alope_ , after my mother,” Q said. “When she was young, she was quite a head-turner. A beautiful man and very good friend of mine, Johnny McFarlane, built her himself, then raced her in California. Back then, she was called _Discovery_.” Q ducked his head, grinning at the memory of hot skin and thin sheets during _Discovery’s_ maiden voyage. It was an apt name at the time. “When her owner died, she passed to me.”

“Your friend preferred outmoded ship design to 'modern atrocities', I take it?” Bond asked, shaking his head. He took a step onto the finger pier, however, and Q hid a smile by hopping onto the deck. “Who needs things like efficiency or safety when you can have antiquity?”

“Sod off,” Q scoffed. “I’m not the type to be reverent of antiquity for some bullshite puritanical affection of all things old. As technology has progressed, so has her inner workings. In fact, the wood is about the only original part of her.” That and some sentimental stitching of original sails onto various fabrics around the sloop, but Bond didn’t need to know that.

“Really?” Bond asked, raising an eyebrow. But now he was walking forward with a bit more confidence, eyes greedily taking in details of the ship that Q knew only a true sailor would see. Q’s heart gave a curious thump in his chest as Bond stepped onto the deck, walked up to the mast, and ran a reverent hand over the perfectly-preserved wood.

“Really,” Q replied. He had to stop and clear his throat, trying to banish the breathiness that had somehow crept into his voice. “I’ll be right back.”

Bond’s nod was dismissive as he wandered the deck, admiring Q’s very special customizations. Q ruthlessly crushed his desire to stay and watch and went below decks to fetch supplies. He _should_ probably have invited Bond down to lay him out on his bed so he’d be more comfortable while Q fixed his deeper wounds, but the simple fact of the matter was that he didn’t think he had the strength. No one but Mycroft and Sherlock had been in his cabin in a very, very long time, and Mycroft’s choice of Bond as Q’s partner in this effort was no last-minute, circumstance-based decision. The ruthless bastard probably planned Lance's involvement from the beginning, drawing Bond in slowly but inevitably, to dangle like a worm on a hook. Q had been watching Bond a long time — since he’d first caught Q’s attention as a young sailor swimmingly recklessly, _beautifully_ , in the ragged stone caves off the coast of uninhabited Scotland islands — and he’d even broken his vow of noninterference because of him. Bond led a careless, dark, restless life, and Q couldn’t help but be drawn back to him again and again.

He was the perfect tool for Mycroft to use against Q, to force him to finally choose a side in the looming war of old power versus old power.

Q sat on the bottom of the stairs, gripped the edges of the wood, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He wasn’t ready. Bond was in Q’s home, raw and open and snapping like a shark; Roth was circling Britain, taunting Q with his displays of beautiful power; and on the sidelines was Mycroft, stirring it all up like a witch cackling over their pot.

It took a few deep breaths for Q to refocus and remember what his immediate task was. Air in for five, hold it, air out for five. In for five, hold it, out for five. In for five, hold it, out for five. Heal Bond. Find Roth. Choose a side. No problem.

“Everything all right?” a voice asked from behind Q.

“Fine, Mr. Bond. It’s fine.,” Q said with a grimace that betrayed his lie.

“You know my name,” Bond replied with a hint of surprise in his voice. He made his way downstairs, but Q didn’t dare raise his head from where his vision was focused on his white-knuckled grip on the stairs.

“I do,” he admitted. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“You called me ‘that’ and ‘it’ when we were introduced,” Bond pointed out reasonably. He sat on the step next to Q, their bodies pressing together uncomfortably on the narrow board. “I didn’t think you considered me human enough to qualify for a name.”

“It’s not that I consider you sub-human,” Q shrugged. “You’re all _too_ human.”

“What did Holmes mean when he said he knew better?” Bond asked quietly.

Q drew his five-second long breath and held it. He looked over at Bond, whose eyebrows were drawn together in in curiosity, and frowned. “You caught that?”

“You know me. How?”

Whatever sliver of hope Q had harbored about Bond voluntarily sitting next to him, talking to him, for reasons not case related, was crushed. He shrugged, swallowing back disappointment. “We travel in parallel circles.”

“That’s not concerning at all,” Bond remarked dryly.

“I’m not a criminal.”

Fabric rustled as Bond shifted and Q finally looked over at him, only to find their gazes locked mere inches apart.

“Fair enough,” Q admitted, unable to look away from the shock of Bond’s cold blue eyes. “How about, not a bad guy. Not an enemy.”

Bond nodded, then turned and leaned away to rest his back against the wall. “That I almost believe.”

“I’m not interested in convincing you,” Q said, pushing off the stair to stand. He headed to the little galley that took up the back left of his cabin. He didn’t strictly need his healing kit, but the idea of having Bond in his own circle, under his salted hands… a thrill ran up his spine as he ducked to the cupboard under the sink.

“How do you know me?” Bond pressed.

“It’s a long story,” Q said as he closed his eyes and reached to the very back, digging around blindly for the kit.

“Then I suggest you stop stalling.”

Rough burlap scratched against Q’s fingertips and he grinned in triumph. “I’m not stalling. It’s been a long time since I’ve talked to a human about my world, and I’m a little out of practice. I’m… trying to find my words.”

Bond frowned as Q pulled the kit free from the cupboard.

“A human,” Bond repeated flatly. “Meaning you’re not?”

“What is human?” Q shrugged. “Is the attitude of a man who was once born believing he was human? Is it genetics? Is it a choice? Is it a small variant on an otherwise long DNA chain?”

“Cut the shite,” Bond demanded. Q narrowed his eyes at him, taking in the pale countenance, the shaky hands, the defeated recline.

“Upstairs. We need to fix you up.”

Bond cast a longing look at Q’s bed — a monstrosity of memory foam, duvets, pillows, and cushions — but Q immediately shook his head no. _That_ was something he wasn’t prepared to handle. “Upstairs.”

With a tired grunt, Bond stood. “Kinky bastard.”

Q was about to snark back when a pair of combat-booted feet swung down from the narrow staircase and kicked Bond square in the chest. Bond cried out in pain as his body was flung across the cabin. He crashed into the bookshelves that lined the back wall before falling in a heap on the bed, books and knicknacks cascading like an avalanche on his abused body.

"What the bloody buggering fuck —" Q started, but an iron scepter swung at him, cutting off his curse. The rod was small and rusted with age but its runic carvings rendered it incredibly effective. It crashed down on his neck, and Q was down.

 

 

 


End file.
